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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24443308">gotta ask</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/lovelycrinkle/pseuds/lovelycrinkle'>lovelycrinkle</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Supernatural</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>M/M</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-05-29</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-05-29</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-04 09:35:26</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>937</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24443308</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/lovelycrinkle/pseuds/lovelycrinkle</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>"How'd you know?"</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>68</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>gotta ask</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Gold, shiny. All-too-familar object that's got exactly zero business being in Sam's hand is out in the open and Dean's about two seconds away from hyperventilating like an 80s housewife who's kids trudged over the freshly cleaned floor with their goddamn muddy shoes.</p><p>"You know, I wanted to wait, give you time, yeah? I know how—" insert vague hand gesture number three here "—I don't wanna say <i>insecure</i> because that's sure to raise your hackles, but, yeah. Uncertain? Let's go with that. I know how <i>uncertain</i>—don't give me that look—you get when it comes to these things, but. Man, Dean, it's been three months, and I'm not getting any younger."</p><p>Noises from metal on old wood as Sam spins the thing with a quick twist of his fingers. (Long fingers, thick fingers, very <i>talented</i> fingers, stop fucking thinking, Dean, half-terriefied and scared out of your mind is really not the time to pop a boner.)</p><p>Dean follows the shine bouncing off the smooth surface and decidedly tries not to throw up.</p><p>Sam'd kill him if he got anything on his fancy books. </p><p>"Wh—I mean, <i>you</i>—ho—"</p><p>His asshole little brother actually has the audacity to look amused, like Dean isn't ready to combust right then and there. (Joke's on him anyway, since <i>Sam</i> would be the one who has to get rid of post-combustion Dean-pieces.) </p><p>Dean forces his back me-afraid-never straight and hunches his shoulders close. <i>Not</i> defensively, just, just <i>in case</i>, just in case he won't like Sam's... answer. And he tries, he really does, to make his next words sound stern with just the tiniest bit of righteous anger, but all he gets out is a bitch-vulnerable whisper of, "How'd you know?" Like he's a frickin' girl or something. Like his whole world will end if Sam says—</p><p>Sam leans back in his chair, fully relaxed, got the polished thing all swallowed up under his gigantor paw-palm now. He shrugs. "I'd like to say it's because I know you so well, and, I mean, I <i>did</i> notice that you've been acting fidgety lately, but, honestly?" He raises his eyebrows in wonder, as if he's still in disbelief himself, then says, "Cas hasn't been able to look at me without crying the past few months." </p><p>Dean feels like someone sucker-punched him in the left lung.</p><p>"...What."</p><p>"Dude, I <i>know</i> right." </p><p>"You knew because—"</p><p>"Cas kept bawling like a baby whenever he looked at me, yep."</p><p>Is this what delirium feels like? Because this has to be a fucking joke. This can't be real. Got to be fucking Gabriel's third coming or something.</p><p>But Sam just keeps looking at him with his head cocked slightly to the right, completely serious, and the angle makes his ridiculously soft hair go woosh and makes Dean all wanna-touch, so.</p><p>"I'm gonna set him on fire. We're gonna have fried chicken for <i>weeks</i>."</p><p>Sam's lips quirk upward, so obviously <i>entertained</i>, and Dean carefully doesn't acknowledge that his immediate instinct is to lean over and plant one on his brother.</p><p>He's already being sappy enough for, like, three decades at least, no need to push it. </p><p>"Be my guest, man. Might wanna wait until Thanksgiving, though."</p><p>Dean snorts. Sure, leave it to Sammy to be all rational about killing one of their friends. </p><p>Although he sobers up pretty quickly when he realizes where Sam is looking now. Scrutinizing the spot Dean knows by heart the inscription is placed. </p><p>"It's fitting," Sam says, fingertip carefully rubbing against the letters.</p><p>Dean swallows, unconsciously. Maybe a little self-consciously too, but you'd have to pluck all of his heartstrings one by one to get him to admit that. "Yeah?" </p><p>Affirmative hum. "It's us," is all Sam says, leaves the <i>so how could it not be</i> unspoken. And it's utterly ridiculous how <i>warm</i> that makes Dean feel, how he just wants to bundle Sam up and lie in bed with him. And not even in the sexy-times-way, just plain ol' domestic-couple-cuddling.</p><p>
  <i>Fucking ridiculous, </i>that's what his brother makes him.</p><p>Alas, whether Dean's acknowledgement of the fact is existent or not, he's kind of <i>really</i> whipped and thus captivated by the image of Sam softly smiling down at the thing, so we can't actually blame him that he doesn't realize something's Happening, full-on capital-H-situation, until Sam raises his hand and stares directly at Dean, the thing between thumb and forefinger. Refuses to break eye contact as he lifts his other hand too, puts the thing on his ring finger, never breaking away from Dean's gaze, not even when Dean's breath catches and his eyes flicker down, caught on Sam's hand, on his finger. </p><p>On the ring.</p><p>The <i>ring</i>, the one he got ten states over Just In Case so he wouldn't run into someone who knows someone who's heard of someone who knows them.<br/>
The one he's hidden at the bottom of his ever-added-to candy stash because he thought I-count-calories-for-a-living Sam would never find it there.<br/>
The one Sam found <i>anyway</i> and nabbed and claimed as his own like the impatient little bitch he is.</p><p>Can you die from happiness, Dean wonders, because he thinks that's how he's feeling. Like Metatron and Chuck and Crowley could have the most unfortunate threesome in existence right this moment, right in front of them, and 
he still wouldn't give a flying fuck because Sam, Sam, 
<i>Sammy.</i></p><p>(But he's also a stupidly self-conscious idiot, so he still has to ask—) </p><p>"So does that mean—" </p><p>"<i>Yes</i>, for christ's sake, <i>of course</i> the answer's yes. The ring is literally already on my finger, what did you <i>think</i> that means?" </p><p>"Just checking!"</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>The clerk, some privileged I-graduated-Harvard-in-kindergarten 20 something brat, distastefully eyes Dean's washed-out jeans and the dust-covered boots, probably contemplating whether Dean's money is really worth 'dirtying' the precious image of his shop with a clientele Like That. </p><p>"Do you know your....... <i>boyfriend's</i> ring size?" </p><p>Dean's really tempted to tell him, <i>Well, I've had his fingers up my ass more times than I can count, so I'd hope so</i>, just to see the little asshole's surely horrified reaction to hearing about blasphemous, gay anal intercourse in public.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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